


Dictionary

by Jess4400



Category: The Good Doctor (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Autistic Character, Disordered Eating, I can always change it, I think it will look cleaner that way, I'm posting one entry at a time instead of all in one document, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Meltdown, Prompt Challenge, Self-Harm, Slurs, Toxic relationships with parents, WIP, domestic abuse, food hoarding, for the real tags, hoo boy, internalized ableism, let me know if you like it that way or not!, now, this is just for what I have planned but I will add tags as I go, unhealthy coping habits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess4400/pseuds/Jess4400
Summary: Shaun Murphy's life told in entries he finds while reading Steve's dictionaryEntry 1: BubbleEntry 2: Mouse





	1. Bubble

 

**bubble |ˈbəb(ə)l| noun**

1 a thin sphere of liquid enclosing air or another gas.

2 used to refer to a good or fortunate situation that is isolated from reality or unlikely to last

Your cracked lips let out a long, steady stream of air. You focus your energy toward the middle of the wand’s open end, squealing in delight when bubbles form on the other side. A gentle nudge of wind is all it takes for them to float away into the sunset. Your mom says something; her voice is loud and fast, but you can’t take your eyes off of the iridescent orbs. They are getting much too far away for your liking.

You chase them in a panic with the hope that they’ll take you somewhere new. Somewhere nicer. When you reach your hand out, they burst, not even giving your tiny fingers a chance to touch them before they disappear.

Some time between recognizing the emotions you’re feeling (a mix of sadness, disappointment, and anger), and reaching down to blow new bubbles, your mom snatches your hand. She squeezes too hard and hisses something sharp and prickly into your ear. She’s out of breath, like she just ran a marathon, but she should have no reason to be. She only ran from the top of the hill, where your house is, to the curb of the street. It’s not that far at all.

You hand her the bottle of soap so she can make her own bubbles, hoping that she’ll seal her red-hot anger inside and let it float away. She sighs and pockets the bottle before picking you up. She takes you home and sends you to your room. She doesn’t give the bottle back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire work was inspired by a short piece I had to annotate in English that absolutely blew me away!! It's called "White" by Harrison Candelaria Fletcher. I 100/100 recommend reading it because it is such a good story that points out the unspoken hierarchy built on skin tone in Mexican culture. As soon as I finished reading it, I knew I wanted to write something in that style!


	2. Mouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:  
> Verbal abuse  
> Child abuse  
> Domestic abuse  
> Slurs  
> Cursing  
> Food hoarding  
> Disordered eating  
> Stimming- but kind of self-harm-ish?

 

**mouse noun, verb |mous | (pl. mice |mīs| )**

1 a small rodent that typically has a pointed snout, relatively large ears and eyes, and a long tail.

2 informal a lump or bruise, especially one on or near the eye.

3 [ with adverbial ] prowl around as if searching

 

You’d like to think you’ve gotten pretty good at sneaking food. You have it timed to a science. Tonight, like usual, your dad fell asleep in the recliner around eleven. His loud snores rumble forebodingly in your chest as you peek around the corner into the living room. You tip-toe past him, careful to avoid clanking the empty cans that must’ve escaped his grasp and rolled onto the floor. Your mom is already in her room upstairs, so you don’t have to worry about her. The hum of the fridge guides you in the darkness; its low, steady drone is an anchor that strengthens your resolve to keep moving.

When you reach the fridge, you check one more time to make sure no one is watching. With a practiced ease, you stick your finger in the sealing of the fridge to keep it from making noise. The inside bulb flickers to life as you slowly open the door, just enough for your malnourished arms to reach inside. You angle your body in a way that blocks the majority of the light from spilling into the living room and grab the items you know your dad will miss the least.

You take a quick inventory, cataloguing how much you have cradled in your arms, and how much you can afford to take tomorrow. The rest of the items in the fridge, you quickly reorganize: _the spoiled milk gallon goes in front because it covers the most volume, the empty orange juice carton leans against the eggs behind it to stay steady, the single-serve cheese packets go behind the milk because they’re the most valuable, the beer covers most of the bottom shelf, so you shouldn’t have to worry much about that…_

Satisfied with your work, you close the door and carefully climb the drawers to raid the upper cabinet of what little saltine crackers you know are left in the box. Suddenly, before your toes can even wrap around the third knob, the light turns on. You turn around so fast that you almost lose your balance. Your dad stands in the doorway, his expression stony.

“What the fuck are you doing, you little shitface? Stealing my food again?” He demands. He pries your clenched fists from the cabinet handle and harshly dumps you onto the floor. A thousand fear-filled questions come to mind as you struggle to come up with a response. _Wasn’t he just sleeping? When did he wake up? You didn’t make any noise, did you? Is he going to-_

A sharp pain blossoms in your left eye. He _did._ He raises his fist again.

“Answer me, retard!” You shield your face with your arms and let out a sob. How can he expect you to answer in this state? _You’re too scared, too tired, too hungry- it’s so_ _loud! You can’t think!_ He punches you a second time. You think it’s funny that you feel the need to categorize these types of things, considering how often they happen.

“I already gave you a bowl of cereal earlier, fatass! Is that not enough for you? Do you think somehow you deserve more food than the rest of us? Is that it?” Another punch. This time, to your stomach. You scream.

Eventually, hurried footsteps rush into the room. Your mom, cradling the baby on her hip, shouts incomprehensible things at him. He shouts something back, giving her a smack of her own. She roars in anger and retaliates. The baby cries. You scurry to your room like the little mouse you are. You jump on the bed, wrap the covers around yourself, and smack your hands against the sides of your head. You have nothing to burrow away in your secret stash. Your stomach rumbles in pain.

You reach your hand into the tiny crevice between your bed and the wall and pull out a fun-size bag of M&Ms your teacher gave you last week. You were saving them for Steve- for when he got older- but not anymore. You crunch loudly as you cry, trying to ignore the battle in the other room. You’re still hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece (esp this chapter) is also inspired by "Risen Up (or, Of Fallen Children and Mountain Kin)" by paradox pangolin and "a trail of breadcrumbs" by valety. These works are in the Undertale fandom here on ao3, but they heavily inspire the content I want to write and the style I want to do it in. Check them out if you're into Undertale and some sweet, sweet, hurt/comfort fics.


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